


Unwritten

by Chierei



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Anxiety, Dimension Travel, Drama, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Parallel Universes, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 03:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12380256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: He wasn’t going crazy, he repeated to himself. He was Yuuri Katsuki, a dime-a-dozen Olympic medalist, poodle enthusiast, and a pork cutlet bowl fatale. He was married to Victor Nikiforov, five times World Champion, Living Legend of Russia, and the most amazing, ridiculous extra human being on this side of the universe.He was Yuuri fucking Katsuki and he was going to be damned if something like this—waking up with seven years of memory missing and the remaining twenty-three years jumbled—was going to stop him from finding his husband.(Alternatively, Yuuri wakes up the day before the Sochi Free Skate but quickly discovers that is the least of his problems.)





	Unwritten

**Author's Note:**

> Please see end notes for potential warnings.

Something was wrong.

Yurri stirred, consciousness caught between wakefulness and the tempting, seductive comfort of his dreams. Something had woken him, but as Yuuri clawed his way back from the edge of sleep, he couldn’t pinpoint what. His sheets were tangled in his legs, and he curled into himself as he felt the sudden chill of cold air sweep against his bared legs. The loud hum of the air conditioning unit echoed in Yuuri’s mind, and he grumbled in response, not wanting to let the grips of sleep release him. “Victor,” Yuuri mumbled half-coherently, his eyes still closed as he tried to grab the edge of the sheet to pull over his shoulders. “’mcold,” Yuuri murmured, words slurred and drowsy as he rolled over to cuddle closer to the human inferno known as his husband, already reaching out to slip his arms around Victor’s waist and bury his nose into the familiar crook of his neck.

Instead, he rolled over and straight off the bed.

Yuuri yelped, jolting awake as the breath was knocked out of him, his shoulder hitting the ground with a hard thump. A splitting pain burst from his head and he blearily looked to find the sharp corner of a low, cheap plywood coffee table being the culprit.

_What in the world?_

Yuuri sat up, unfocused but awake, and let his gaze sweep across the room even as one hand pressed against what was probably a blossoming bruise. He clawed at the edges of his memory, trying to remember anything that would provide an explanation for why he had spent the night in an unfamiliar room that was either the cheapest hotel room on this side of the hemisphere or someone’s cheap and utilitarian apartment that looked like every other spartan Japanese apartment under his blurry eyesight. He didn’t remember drinking, but he didn’t have the cleanest track record when it came to blacking out after a night of budding alcoholism. He patted around the ground, squinting desperately for his glasses. He finally found a pair on the coffee table, folded neatly and set on the corner, and he had them almost on before he realized what was wrong with them.

They were his spares—a set almost identical to his normal, favorite blue-rimmed glasses, except with black plastic running along the top and sides and thinner lenses, giving it a more studious look. They were an old prescription that Yuuri had worn through his early years in Detroit before Phichit had burst into his life and practically forced Yuuri to buy his now signature blue-framed spectacles. What were they doing here? Had he gotten that drunk and lost or broke his normal set? He didn’t feel hungover, but Yuuri slipped them on regardless, slipping then over his ears and letting them settling onto the bridge of his nose, the unsettling feeling returning as he finally got a good look at his surroundings.

There was no way this was a hotel room.

It was…small. Stark. And very clearly an apartment that someone was actively living in, bathed in the artificial light of a yellowing street lamp that shone through a crack in the closed curtains. Yuuri spied a cell phone sitting on the offending coffee table and Yuuri snagged it without a thought. He knew within seconds that it wasn’t his—the device smaller and the corner had a burst of cracked glass from when its owner had clearly dropped it. The case on it was slim and low profile and a dull, utilitarian gray as opposed to Yuuri’s custom and matching case from his and Victor’s infamous exhibition. He pulled himself to his feet, his head still smarting, as he was already thumbing the side of the device to turn the screen on. He dropped it when the date flashed across the screen. He fumbled, trying to catch the phone before it hit the ground, but missing anyway. He must have read it wrong.

The phone hit the ground with a sharp clatter and Yuuri sat down, hard, on the bed before he reached down to pick it up, hand shaking. He thumbed the side again and stared hard at the numbers, willing them to change under his eyes.

_Saturday, December 12_

It had been March, hadn’t it? Hadn’t it? Yurio, who was still 177 cm of attitude and rage that were rolled up in braided blonde hair and leopard print, had just won his third gold at Worlds. He and Victor had taken Yurio out to celebrate after the medal ceremony and—

And—

Yuuri could feel his chest tightening as he struggled to remember the rest of the night, his lungs twisting itself in to knots as his breaths came out shallow and rough. He groped desperately for his last memory, recounting their steps from the O2, remembering how Victor had opened the taxi door for him as they led Yurio and Otabek into the quaint, Japanese restaurant that Victor and Yuuri had painstakingly scouted out for their celebration meal, how—

Terror shot through Yuuri’s mind and body, and he could feel his face flush as he tried to calm himself and breathe, in and out. His sweaty palms twisted in the foreign sheets as he tried, desperately to remember the rest of the night and only managed to grasp onto bits and pieces, disjointed like an aging video reel:

Yurio insisting on ordering for himself in halting, accented Japanese with a hot pink blush dusting his pale cheeks. Victor feeding the last bite of pork to his husband, smile wide and indulging and perfect—

Yuuri forced himself to stop as his chest constricted, his hand coming up to claw at his top as he hunched over and set his head between his knees. He was going crazy. It had been March. They had been at Worlds. He was thousands of miles from home, missing months of his memory, and his husband was nowhere in sight. Where was Victor?

_Where was Victor?_

He rocked himself back and forth, trying to take deep gulps of air, trying to force his lungs to work against the oppressive heat and pressure that was squeezing him. It had been months since his last panic attack, even longer since he has had to deal with the fallout on his own. He forced his lips apart and tried to focus on something, anything, except the impending sense of unease and loss of control. “S-sento un, una voce che,” he started, his voice shaky and the Italian feeling clumsy on his tongue.

“Che, che piange lo-lontano,” he continued, forcing his lips around the familiar aria. He was out of tempo, the words barely audible to his own ears over the thundering beating of his own heart. “Ancha, anche tu sei s-stato forse abbandonato,” he murmured, hitching his voice a little louder as he tried to focus on the words, imagining Victor’s deep crooning voice laying over top his own, tried to picture Victor’s hands in his own as he urged Yuuri to sing along with him, that he was here with him, that he’d never leave him. Yuuri repeated the first verse again, focused on the words and the meaning and the memory behind their song, and as his words grew stronger with every line and the aching hurt, the tightness in his chest and limbs eased a fraction.

When he finished the song, he started on another, and Yuuri could picture his husband, kneeling before him and whispering the lyrics of his favorite, and sappiest, love song.

“Milaya,” Victor would whisper into their clenched hands, a secret hymn between them, “Menya tseluya shepchesh' milaya.” _Darling, kiss me, whispering my dear. How happy I am now that I see the light in your eyes._ Yuuri forced himself to speak the lyrics in Russian, lyrics that he had spent weeks on getting with perfect fluency and never failed to make Victor’s eyes light up. _I’m burning in one wish—I want to be loved by you._

Again and again, Yuuri repeated their ritual as he worked himself down from his attack. Moving from one maudlin love song to another, changing languages with every refrain to force him to focus, using the knowledge as a tacit reminder that Yuuri wasn’t going crazy, that Yuuri hadn’t dreamed up the last months and years of his life, a feeling that Yuuri sometimes would get hit with like a sudden broadside out from the fog. By the end of the fourth song— _I want to live like this forever until the sky falls down on me_ —Yuuri had gotten his breathing under control and felt calm enough to sit up, stretching out the budding knot of aching muscles that was blooming between his shoulder blades from his hunched position. He was still keyed up and the ever present feeling apprehension was hovering around him as a fog of miasma, but his hand was steady and the crushing sensation in his chest had abated.

He swept down to pick up the abandoned cell phone from the ground where he had dropped it again. It was an old model, ancient in terms of technological standards, but familiar enough that Yuuri turns the screen on without issue. The background of the lock screen sits unwell with him, a stock photo of snow covered mountains against a backdrop of the night sky speckled with an impossible number of stars and nebula. The thought struck him as he turns the device over in his hand.

This was his phone. The right side of the case had a familiar, well-worn scrape from where Yuuri had the nervous habit of scratching his thumb nail along the side, chipping off the color and pattern of every phone case he’s ever owned. It felt…familiar in a strange way in his hands, the bottom resting on top of his pinky where he could see a small patch of shiny, smooth skin. It had all the markings of one of his phones while being wholly alien to him. He carefully keyed in his normal pass-code, the motions familiar over long use— _1225_ —and the device buzzes gently in response as it fails. Yuuri curser softly in English.

He spends the next few minutes trying varying combinations of passwords that he’s used in the past—Vicchan’s birthday, his SP score at his first Junior Grand Prix Finals, Victor’s SP record that he set at Junior Worlds. By the time his eighth failed pass-code attempt ( _the date Victor had shown up at Yutopia in all his naked glory_ ) flashed another denial across the screen, this time accompanied by the ominous warning to ‘try again in 15 minutes’, Yuuri was cursing in more languages than English.

Yuuri took a deep breathe. “Okay,” he said to himself as he set the phone down on the coffee table. “Okay,” he repeated, as though saying it again, aloud to the empty air, would help make his next move apparent when, in all honestly, Yuuri didn’t know what he was doing. His first instinct, calling Victor, was currently on the back-burner until he could get a working phone, so he had fifteen minutes to kill that was probably better spent doing something other than having a second panic attack in some stranger’s apartment.

He stood on shaking legs, unbalanced, and noted the blue striped pajama bottoms and baggy gray shirt that hung limply off his frame. He stumbled to the nearest wall, hitting his shin on the low table in his haste, and slammed his palm against the light switch. A harsh fluorescent light filled the room, and Yuuri regretted his decision almost instantly. He blinked a few times, allowing himself to adjust, before he finally had a chance to examine the room he was in, taking in the cheap tatami flooring under his bare feet and the bare walls covered in peeling plaster. The bed was pushed against the right wall, twin-sized and covered with a tangled navy blue cover and a meager, graying pillow that had seen better days. The low coffee table that he had crashed his head into sat in the center of the room, no more than a step away from the edge of the bed. On its other side, barely the length of another two steps away, was a writing desk, its color the glaring yellow-beige of plywood covered in cheap laminate. It was bare except for a single forest green notebook pushed into one corner, a page bookmarked with a ballpoint pen, and an ancient looking black laptop in the center.

Yuuri hurriedly opened the computer, pressing the small power icon with one hand as he was already reaching over to look at the notebook. It was filled with nonsensical notes—dates, times, appointments—that had no meaning to Yuuri but were all done in the neat cookie-cutter handwriting that Yuuri instantly recognized as his own. Yuuri barely notice as the laptop, all boxy corners and lacking the sleek streamline look of his own, chimed and flashed the bright blue startup screen.

His eyes caught on a picture frame that was propped up on the neighboring bookshelf, the dark cherry wood finish of the shelf offering a clashing contrast to the dyed yellow pattern of the desk. Yuuri didn‘t recognize the photo but would know those faces anywhere.

Staring back at him was his family—Yuuri and his mother in the center with Mari and his father flanking them on either side. His mother and Mari were clad in brightly colored kimonos, Mari’s a deep forest green with gold trim while his mother’s was a cheery red and pink. Mari’s hair was lacking the fashionable blond that she had sported since high school and was instead twisted up in into an elegant and elaborate braid, bangs sweeping down and almost over her eyes. It was beautiful, the very picture of elegant, understated beauty, and it did not suit his sister one bit.

More startling was the face of a teenage Yuuri was stared back—his cheeks still holding on to his characteristic baby fat and his large brown eyes hidden behind the same pair of black frames that sat on the bridge of his nose now. But what made Yuuri’s heart to stop, what made him almost collapse in a mixture of confusion and alarm was this:

_He had no memory of taking this photo._

He had no memory of attending any event where Mari could have been wrangled into wearing a formal kimono, no memory of her hair being long and black, or any time in his memory where her ears weren’t dotted with silver and gold piercings. The smiling visages of his mother and father looked older than they had when he had last seen them, lines of age and stress visible around the happy crinkle of their eyes. His mother’s face and body was slimmer, lacking some of soft curves that Yuuri had always associated with love and home.

What was going on?

A thought crossed his mind, errant and crazy and impossible.

Yuuri took a seat, his limbs almost faltering as he could already hear the heavy hammering of his heartbeats. The laptop had booted up and the desktop, with its plain background of abstract swirls of teal and ivory, stared back mockingly. He could feel his hand shaking and it takes him two tries for him to navigate to a web browser, blessedly already connected to the internet, and then another full minute for him to type his inquiry into the search bar with trembling fingers:

_todays date_

When the results loaded, the drumming of his heartbeat became deafening and his throat closes up. Yuuri tried to calm himself, but as the bold, impossible, pixels refused to change under his shaky and darkening gaze, he let the panic overtake him.

**Friday, December 11, 2015**

 

* * *

 

 

Yuuri doesn’t know how long it takes for him to come back to himself this time. When he does manage to gather the tattered remnants of his mind, he’s curled up on himself on the floor, his back against the wall. He has only the vague recollection of him stumbling from the chair and falling. He had wedged himself in the small space between the desk and the shelf, and he could feel the sting of the long red scratches that ran up and down his forearms that he had inflicted upon himself in his stupor. He felt exhausted, his muscles trembling and body aching. He could feel the dryness of his mouth, his cracked lips and sandpaper tongue, and the pressure against his head, all the signs he recognized as a coming headache after one—or two, in this case—of his attacks. He forced himself to his feet, bracing his weight against the edge of the shelf as he pulled himself up. He could feel it wobble, giving precariously under his weight and he let go as soon as he caught his balance. He still felt partially numb, overwhelmed to the point where if he thought too much, let his mind linger on the swirling ball of chaos that hung above him, he would lose his composure again.

Luckily, Yuuri was excellent at not thinking too hard on his imminent breakdown after all these years.

First things first, he told himself, getting his bearings. He was going to continue on the assumption that he was not, in fact, crazy and delusional, and had not dreamed up an entire lifetime of being a world champion figure skater who falls in love and lives happily ever after with his childhood idol. Which, once he had worded it like so, his life seemed more and more like a self-indulgent penny romance novel that someone picked up in line at the supermarket. It made the likelihood of him suffering from an episode of acute primary psychosis much more likely.

Except for that it felt real, so real that Yuuri could not ever imagine it not being so. Yuuri could remember the little, precise details of his life, everything from the rough texture of skin that Victor had on his left bicep from when he had tripped over a classmate and scraped his arm raw on the pavement when he was seven to the taste of katsudon pirozhki, with the soft butter roll and the comforting tang of egg. He could recite the first three sentences of _Anna Karenina_ in its original Russian and the entire musical repertoire of _The King and the Skater_. In _Thai_. He could remember the exact motions, the physics, and strain of his muscles to pull off a clean triple axel and even now, his thumb kept rubbing against his right ring finger and a hum of panic would shoot down his spine when his finger only met skin instead of the familiar metal.

He wasn’t going crazy, he repeated to himself. He was Yuuri Katsuki, a dime-a-dozen Olympic medalist, poodle enthusiast, and a pork cutlet bowl fatale. He was married to Victor Nikiforov, five times World Champion, Living Legend of Russia, and the most amazing, ridiculous extra human being on this side of the universe. Together they were the figure skating power couple of their generation, and they were going to leave a trail of champions in their wake.

He was Yuuri fucking Katsuki and he was going to be damned if something like this—waking up with seven years of memory missing and the remaining twenty-three years jumbled—was going to stop him from finding his husband.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri spent the next hour learning very little about himself. The apartment was as small as he had originally determined, with a minuscule kitchen directly outside of the single, sliding door followed by a cubicle that was barely enough space to turn around in that was the single bathroom. Yuuri had spent so much time abroad and in his family’s onsen that he had forgotten how crammed the rest of his home country was at times. And he was definitely in Japan—a quick look outside his window (followed by searching his own location on the laptop, just to be safe) had confirmed it.

After he locked himself out of the cell phone again, he scavenged what he presumed was his keys and wallets from the top of the shoe cabinet that was by his front door. Three keys, bronze and nickel and wholly nondescript, with a cheap promotional plastic key chain were attached to a laminated tag. A flimsy hand-written string of numbers was written on one side in thick blue marker while the other side showed a perfect yellow circle, Ashikaga Gym printed over top in bold black lettering. The wallet, a boring black bi-fold, relayed similar information that was tangentially interesting but not answering any actual questions.

Other than a handful of banknotes and a single credit card, Yuuri had found a driver’s license tucked into the front slot of the wallet. The picture and name was definitively a Yuuri Katsuki of Japan and the picture staring back out was the same one that stared back at the mirror now. He had spent a few minutes looking at the slip of plastic, letting his eyes run over the kanji and the iridescent sealing, tilting it back and forth as though mesmerized by the changing colors. He had never gotten a driver’s license in Japan before, he mused, as he held it up to the light and watched the pink and silver speckles dance across the surface. He had only gotten one in Detroit after Phichit had insisted and had gotten another in Russia after he had been subjected to Victor’s terrifying mockery of driving. But he had never gotten one in Japan; there had just never seemed to be much of a reason to. Once he was old enough to apply for one, he was never in Japan long enough for it to matter.

He didn’t know why it bothered him now, to see this little rectangular of plastic in his hands. He sighed, slipping it back into the wallet and setting both it and the keys back where he had found them.

He rustled through all of the cabinets, finding odds and ends but nothing atypical. The fridge, short and waist high, was practically empty. Half an onion and three carrots sitting forlornly on one shelf next to an untouched package of Yakult. Three sad little eggs rested in the door next to a half-empty bottle of green tea. He grabbed the bottle before he closed the door with a wistful expression, longing for a bite of katsudon. He took a long draught from the bottle instead, relishing the feeling of the cool liquid against his parched throat, before he considered the closet.

It was filled with cheap suits and starched button ups, the fabric scratchy even as Yuuri brushed his hands along the edges. Three ties hung from a single hanger, and Yuuri could feel the corners of his lips turn up. He could already picture Victor’s indignation at the sight of them, his insistence that Yuuri burn the whole lot. Yuuri’s hand stopped at the last hanger, his deft fingers already feeling the sudden change in texture.

He pushes the pile of clothes back a few inches, tugging the garment partially to get a better look. The soft cotton felt plush under his fingers, and Yuuri’s eyes swept over the simple, black lace dress. It was cute, Yuuri considered, though not his style: long crocheted lace sleeves that opened to a subtle bell shape, a scooped neckline lined with scallops of lace, and a simple A-line figure. He ran his hand down the front of the dress, considering, before he tucked it back in the closet. His hand was already smoothing it back against the rows of two button polyester suits and collared shirts when he caught sight of a battered duffel crammed between two low built-in shelves. Yuuri pulled it out, already excited at the prospect, and carried it over to the bed, curling one leg under him as he took a seat.

The duffel had clearly seen better days, made of cheap polyester that was fraying at the bottom corners, and the blue lining that had likely once been a cheery zaffre was covered in dirt and grime. The zipper opened smoothly though when Yuuri gave it a tug and he delved in. He pushed aside the soft charcoal jersey shirts and leggings as he fished around for anything of interest, letting out a soft exclamation when he pulled out a pair of split-sole leather ballet flats. He ran his thumb over the scuffed soles, noting the deep scratches that marred them and the heavy cake of dirt that stained the leather black. They were old, well-worn, but not particularly well cared for, the seams almost falling apart as the threads had slowly eroded away over time from friction. His lips fell into a slight frown as he turns over the pair of flats in his hands, wondering why the other him hadn’t bothered to buy a new pair. He set them aside, pondering, and spent another few minutes checking each of the pockets on the gym bag but comes up with nothing else interesting. Most importantly, he hadn’t found a single piece of ice skating equipment. No skates, no skate guards, not even a pair of gloves. He set the flats on top of the refolded shirts, closing the top of the bag, before setting it on the ground with at troubled expression.

It was probably coming up on the hour for him to guess his phone’s password again.

Yuuri picked up his phone again, flopping back down on the bed with the phone held up above him. His lips were pursed in contemplation. He didn’t have that many more chances to get into the device before it locked him out again, potentially permanently. He tapped the top of the phone against his bottom lip as he considers his options. No ice skating likely means any of his passwords involving his skating or Victor wouldn’t work—something he already knew from trial and error at this point. Maybe something simpler…?

He sighed, figuring he’ll never know if he didn’t try. He carefully typed in another four digit sequence, his pointer finger carefully entering the new attempt—1129. Yuuri gave a crow of happiness when the screen changes to a home screen, the rows of both familiar and unknown icons laid out in neat rows against the stock backdrop. Yuuri quickly swings himself up, crossing his legs as he leans his back against the wall.

Yuuri tapped on his text messages first, hoping that they may be more useful in providing him information than the rest of his apartment, and ends up sorely disappointed. The first five conversations were all from strangers—strings of names like Matsumoto Hideki, Takahashi Daichi, and Harada Kimiko that meant nothing to Yuuri. His skimmed through the conversations, trying to put together clues to their relation to him. Co-workers, Yuuri decided, scrolling through questions that appear work-related—and this work was clearly, heartbreakingly, not ice skating—and invitations out to drink. He finds a thread from Mari almost a dozen conversations down, the last message from over a week previous.

_mom and dad are fine. we are doing fine. srsly stop sending money._

Yuuri hadn’t responded.

Yuuri’s finger hovers over the call button, lingering over the small phone icon before he sighs and thumbs himself back to contacts screen. It takes him a few minutes of fiddling before he manages to bring up an English keyboard and even after the first search—a simple ‘V’—in his contacts, it comes up predictably blank. Well, it had been worth a shot.

Instead his thumb hovered on the dial pad. He was missing seven years’ worth of memories. If Victor was here, if Victor did remember him and they were stuck in this unique form of hell together, Yuuri needed to get in contact but how? By phone was the most obvious and the most unlikely method. Victor had to change accounts every time his number was leaked to the public, which happened every few months—retirement had barely dimmed his global popularity. Yuuri could maybe remember the last two or three numbers but seven years’ worth? He tried anyway, tapping in the Russian country code before the final ten digits, heedless of the cost of international calls. The first two came back as disconnected numbers and the third connected to a very confused Russian woman.

That was a bust.

Yuuri flicked open Instagram. Or tried to.

It only took a few seconds to realize that the app wasn’t even downloaded. Yuuri wasn’t as surprised as he should have been. Even at the height of his career, he had a minimal on-line presence that had been forced on him mostly by Phichit at first and then later his publicist. He downloaded the application in short order and is mildly annoyed when his normal handle, katsuki-yuuri, is already taken. He tries a few variations before he manages to settle on yuuri-ktsk and then immediately beings to type in Victor’s well-known username.

He almost had another panic attack before he can finish typing in the social media handle. What if it turned up nothing? What if Viktor Nikiforov didn’t exist and Yuuri was delusional? What if—?

Yuuri pressed submit before he could finish that thought and to his relief, the familiar face of his husband popped up on his screen, artfully cropped, and sitting next to the small verified blue check mark. He lingered over the thumbnails displaying the smiling visage of his husband and couldn’t help the quirk of his lips over a familiar fuzzy muzzle of Makkachin. He hit ‘Message’ before he could think much further, already feeling the familiar burning of salt from the corner of his eyes.

Victor, he typed carefully before pausing, unsure what to say. Like his phone number, the likelihood that these messages would reach the other man was low. Viktor hadn’t managed most of his social media accounts for several years at this point—leaving that to his highly trained and well-paid team of social media managers that his publicist had hired after one or two (or five) terribly drunken Instagram posts and the resulting backlash from his sponsors. Viktor had hijacked his account back when he had chased Yuuri across the globe much to the chagrin of his publicist, and he had enjoyed several months of uncensored freedom before he had reluctantly returned control back to his team in the days before his comeback at Russian nationals.

Yuuri knew first hand that Viktor got a fair amount of creepy messages from crazed fans and that this message was likely going to be funneled into that category that never reached the other skater but… He sighed, and typed out the message carefully, trying to imply without outright saying and coming off as a crazy, obsessed fan (which Yuuri wasn’t quite convinced he wasn’t yet). Finally he settled on a series of words that would make no sense to anyone who wasn’t his Viktor.

_Sochi. Hasetsu. Beijing. Moscow. Barcelona. St Petersburg. On Love: Eros. Yuri on Ice. 319.53._

_Don’t ever take your eyes off me. June 14, 2017._

_Please remember._

He repeated the message on Twitter and exhaled, closing his eyes as he hunched over, his elbows on his knees as he tried to calm himself. He tapped the top of the cell phone on his forehead, the rhythmic tap distracting him enough for him to keep himself calm as he focused on the steady inhale and exhale of his breathing.

The last thing he expected was for his phone to ring.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Time travel ftw. Dimension travel ftw. Because I am trash for those two tropes. I've been sitting on this for ages and finally decided to start posting it. Feedback would be loved!
> 
> Please refer to [this post](https://chierei.tumblr.com/taggingpolicy) for my tagging policy and details about potential triggers that may contain spoilers. 
> 
> Music References  
> [Непара - Милая](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cl4ZlzgnXaM)  
> [Savage Garden — “Truly, Madly, Deeply”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQnAxOQxQIU)
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://chierei.tumblr.com/)?


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